Stranger Than Fiction
by Shineera
Summary: Is this what falling in love feels like? Or were they wrong altogether? Short Alistair/Cousland fic, filled to the extreme with fluffiness.


_Just a quick drabble to get away a bit from the 1st person perspective I've been using lately. I'm not gonna lie, it's just a poor excuse for fluff :p enjoy._

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In the past few days, Ariadne had caught herself more than once staring at Alistair, a little more than interested in studying him, lingering her gaze on the curve of his jaw, the way his hair reacted when his fingers ran through it and how his eyes brightened up when someone mentioned supper was ready. Not to mention the time when, due to poorly calculated timing, she almost walked in on him _naked_ in the river bank.

_And the way the water slid down his chest and..._

Suddenly her thoughts were forced by her to jump into how Dog started leaping with maddened excitement when Leliana would set aside the bones that were leftover from their meal and gathered them in a bowl for him.

But then there he was again, the former templar _forcing_ himself on her sight, as he lifted himself up to go and get a second, or third, serving. And surely enough, there they were, once more her thoughts entranced by the deep studying of her travelling companion, of her _subject_. Yes, that was it. This was a study, he was her subject. For she never knew quite well how to properly portray a masculine jaw in her drawings... and the way his lips curved and parted slightly and his hand wiped the stew that carelessly ran down his chin...

His eyes suddenly turned their attention from the steaming food on his lap to her and the young Warden felt herself blushing and her face felt so much more hot than it should be when he smiled at her and _simply kept looking_.

Ariadne felt like she was in the middle of a badly written Orlesian novel and she knew it.

Furiously, she got up, leaving her own bowl on the ground and walked as calmly as she could muster towards her tent, taking her covers with her and sitting down behind it, as if this way it was easier to simply just hide from them, from him and...

What was this? What was this fluttering in her stomach and the sweat that insisted on making her hands feel incredibly sticky? This lightheadness that made her feel like the world was turning her around and forcing her to fall?

Ariadne had heard the maids, telling of their, apparently, self aware hearts that refused to do their bidding and seemed like nothing more but an annoying nuisance as they relentlessly beat like they were "going to jump right out". And there was their beloved novels that told tales of maidens that refused to keep their purity out of maddened _love_ and lust for the knight in shining armor who promised them lives of everlasting happiness, eventually succumbing to their charms and indulging in overly descriptive acts that were overflowing with not so clever words for certain parts of anatomy.

As a young girl, when she stole the tomes from the maids and locked herself in her room to read them, Ariadne would always giggle at the ridiculousness and would act out some of the tamer scenes in front of her mirror, with exaggerated voices and gestures, ending up collapsing with laughter.

But this... nobody told her of this. Of how so terribly dull the stars looked when he was not beside her to admire them, how his smell of sweat and blood mixed with leather lingered as the most perfect memory, how she would tremble more for him than anyone else when they would part from battle and he had wounds to be cared for... of how her every thought belonged to him.

It was almost infuriating, to try and rid herself of those ideas and childhood fantasies of knights in shining armor that now all had _his face_.

_This isn't me. Not at all. Momentary madness? Maybe the meat was spoiled?_

And his smile. Not his smile in general, but how he smiled at _her_. How genuine, how filled with joy it was when she got out of her tent and laid eyes on him, first thing in the morning.

Maddening.

The sound of feet crushing dry leaves behind her snapped Ariadne from her sulking time out, who forced herself as hard as she could to not look back and acknowledge his arrival, for who else would follow her into that particular spot, where there was nothing to gaze at but a bunch of trees and bushes.

"Mind if I join? In the contemplation of foliage, that is. Since that's apparently what you're doing." Alistair asked, in his playful tone, not waiting for an answer and simply sitting down beside her.

None of them were wearing armor and the warmth that emanated from him was so inviting it made her want to wrap him in her embrace and simply relish in it. Instead, the Warden froze in her place, gripped tightly the covers around her and kept staring at the ever so interesting bush to her side.

"Ariadne...?"

She kept her silence, knowing that she was sounding rude, cold, distant and so many other not so pleasant things, but what could she say? The words were trapped in her throat.

"Are we playing charades?" he tapped her shoulder lightly and an unsure smile crept up in his lips, his hand sliding down her arm and allowing his fingers to lace themselves on hers. The roughness of his hands, the callousness and scars that told innumerous tales felt like they were her own. It felt so natural for him to hold her hand like this, like they were nothing but two pieces of the same broken vase, waiting to be fit together.

Ariadne's stomach insisted on tightening inside her, making her curve slightly forward in an attempt to subside the feeling. Alistair was right there beside her and yet she could not think of anything else but him, sitting on camp, in the middle of battlefield. Of him and nothing else.

"Ariadne..." he called out her name again, this time concern clouding his voice. "You've been awfully strange these past few days... is... is there something wrong?"

He tightened his grasp on her hand, rubbing his thumb on hers and tilting his head to the side, trying to capture her gaze in his.

"Is there anything... I can do? Or..." his voice faltered for a moment as he gulped and once more opened his mouth, trying to speak. "Don't tell me you're mad at what I said?"

"I'm not mad Alistair, it's just..." Ariadne let out a heavy sigh and kept her attention on the leaves that swayed gently with the night breeze.

"You asked me for my opinion. Do I think letting out a blood mage on the loose is a terribly bad idea? Yes I do. Do I think you made a bad decision? Well, I-"

"I know I made the right decision!" she unexpectedly raised her voice and turned to face him, letting go of his hand. Realizing her outburst, she lowered her head and chewed on her lip, rubbing her foot on the dirt below her.

_I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at myself... thinking that you might hate..._

"I'm sorry, Alistair..."

The sound of silence felt thick between them, as he looked at her slightly bewildered and obviously not knowing what to do or say.

Alistair's hand sat on the rock beneath him, raising slightly and trying to find hers. Instead the young woman leaned in and caught his lips with her own, pressing them against his and keeping her hands inside the covers. She had wanted this, hadn't she? And now she stood there, simply _touching_ him and not knowing what to do with herself. His hands laid themselves on her shoulders and the touch of his cold skin against her rose up to her neck, pulling Ariadne's face closer, who parted her lips, trying desperately to regain the breath that was caught on her throat when she mindlessly threw herself at him.

His trembling fingers started to caress the nape of her neck and his stubble rubbed against her chin, tickling, brash and yet incredibly arousing her senses. He parted from her lips and rested his forehead against hers, whispering her name in a low hoarse voice. Not even the cool breeze was enough to tame the fire than emanated from her cheeks and she could still feel a tingling in her wet lips, raising a finger to touch them, to assure her that what had just happened was not some dream fueled by seedy novels. But his smile was enough to do just that.

Love. Was this it? To simply jump head first into the middle of an entirely different kind of battlefield, simply because nothing else in the world felt so right? Maybe those ridiculous Orlesian novels were right after all.


End file.
